Under the Bough
by Heroic Plights
Summary: 1950's AU. Arthur Kirkland is an orderly at Pilgrim State Mental Hospital when he first meets Alfred Jones, a patient who may or may not be crazy. As Arthur begins to see more sides of Alfred and their bond grows, the definition of sanity becomes ever more indefinite. The question is, which of them is mental, and does it even matter in the first place? Welcome to the golden era.


_Story Theme: Stand by Me (the Drifters)_

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_Chapter Theme: The Great Pretender (The Platters)_

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_The year is 1956_

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The very first time Arthur met Alfred F. Jones, it was the sort of uninspiring affair he naturally expected from a patient of Pilgrim State Mental Hospital—so bleak and undelightful that he was quick to put the encounter out of mind.

But to be fair, he'd met Alfred's brother first.

And ultimately it was all Bella's fault.

_"Arthur, I'm busy, can you go to the main entrance for me? There's a relative here to see patient 13-50, and I told him you'd show him to the Visitor's Room. He's a quiet kid, blond hair and glasses. Poor thing looks like he'd rather spoon out his eyes than be here." _Bella was an excellent judge of character. She'd just earned her degree in clinical psychology, after all. "_And remember, there's nothing wrong with being overly kind_."

So Arthur had approached the desk just inside the front doors of Building 13 and spotted his catch immediately. Even with shoulders nervously hunched and hands jammed into his jeans' pockets, the proposed "kid" look to be at least nineteen, and stood a bit taller than Arthur himself (though by mere centimetres, really).

"Name?" Arthur startled the young man out of his anxious reverie.

"Oh, um, Matthew Williams? I'm here to see Alfred Jones?"

At the time, it was not a name Arthur recalled. "I'm assuming Alfred Jones is Patient 13-50?"

"Um, that's what I was told? There was a nurse here earlier who I spoke to—"

"Right, of course. Have you signed the visitors' log?"

"Yes?"

_Why the uncertainty? This isn't a test_. Arthur was about to sigh, but Bella's reminder stopped him. _Overly kind_, she'd said. _Nothing wrong with it._

"That's…lovely," he forced out. "You will have an hour to visit, is that quite well?" Hopefully it was, because there was no way Arthur could bend the rules to accommodate him further. He added an excruciatingly courteous smile offhand. "Right this way."

Arthur led Matthew down the central hallway of the building, skirting around a steady stream of female nurses in little white hats, doctors in pressed trousers, and some even flaunting designer suits as they led patients to and from wherever it was they were going. As they walked, it grew painfully clear that Matthew was new to this experience. He seemed to twitch at every voice, an anxious frown creasing his forehead that seemed to deepen as they reached their destination.

"Here we are," Arthur declared with no amount of pride, pulling open a set of glass doors. He threw in another feigned smile when Matthew caught his eye.

The Visitor's Room was true to its title. It was inviting. It was actually _too_ inviting, with soft chairs tucked into every corner and tables adorned in flower vases. Against the wall sat a twelve-inch turntable that looked expensive but never got much use, and beside it, a shiny new television set fresh from the assembly line played the daily news on muted volume (it wasn't even a colour set, anyway). A lamp hung from the ceiling and a large set of French windows ushered in the sun, making the room far brighter than it needed to be. _Well, at least we know how to keep up appearances, _Arthur thought wryly.

Matthew Williams did not seem impressed. His nervous attention flittered throughout the room, darting between the slew of nurses and the scruffy patients who stared just a bit too long or talked just a bit too loud.

When Arthur set a complementary cup of tea on the table before Matthew, he secretly slipped the spoon into his uniform pocket. _Bella was right; he does look as if he'd rather spoon out his eyes._

Sitting across from Matthew was patient 13-50, Alfred Jones.

He looked much like a distorted mirror image of Matthew—wire-rimmed specs and honey-wheat-coloured hair—though by the way Alfred's shoulders hunched, Arthur knew it must've been from the physical strain of shock therapy, not anxiety. Alfred wasn't offered any tea, as it wasn't allowed, and Arthur thought it was quite a shame. There were dark circles shadowing his eyes, and despite that it was a humid May afternoon on Long Island, his bony frame shivered beneath a grey sweater branded with his number.

Tea probably would've done the lad some good.

"How have you been?" Matthew asked uncertainly, after searching the table in confusion for his spoon. "You look…not too bad. How do you feel?"

"I feel real swell, I really do." Alfred smiled.

Arthur stepped back against the wall (as required) and watched Alfred swallow in envy as Matthew lifted the painted cup to his lips. He tried not to eavesdrop on their conversation, but it was impossible _not_ to hear to a few of their words.

'School.'

'Bored.'

'Baseball.'

'Friends.'

It all seemed well and good.

Arthur didn't feel so guilty about encroaching at first, but when words like 'mom' and 'dad' began to creep into their dialogue, he tried to tune it out.

Because Arthur was nothing if not polite.

Or rather, the air around them grew incredibly awkward, and Arthur had no desire to be a part of it. He was there to monitor the situation, not to mediate it, after all. And if he was entirely honest with himself, he was only working at Pilgrim State because if he wasn't, he'd likely be found out by the authorities and deported, and then the all time and effort he'd spent just to build a life here would've been for nothing.

When in America, right?

Being an orderly was drastically different than the ruckus of that bar in Brooklyn; even more so than London or Manchester as he remembered, but he'd come to relish things that were never the same; he craved the distraction. Though of course, the more routine things became in this place, the faster his mood began to sour.

He'd been employed for a month, and he suspected the only reason he hadn't been fired was because he accepted the tasks no one else wanted. Eavesdropping in the Visitor's Room was a delightful perk, really.

Matthew's voice rose slightly then. Or was it Alfred's?

"—just for a bit longer. And when you're out, we'll get hamburgers and those gigantic malts from Chasey's, okay?"

"But I want that now."

"Well, you'll be out soon, right?"

"You don't get it, Matt."

"You'll pass the next evaluation if you just cooperate. Right? I want you out, Alfred, we all want you back. Dad misses your visits, he really does. And Mom…She's probably lonely without you."

"Sure she is."

"She was only trying to help."

There was an uncomfortable twist in Alfred's eyebrows, the downturn of his lips every so often punctuated by a tight, fleeting smile. Matthew's head would nod, he would lean in and Alfred would lean back, slumping deep in his chair as if he'd be swallowed by it, then sitting up again and scratching at the crook of his elbow beneath the fabric of his sweater. Arthur found himself watching him just to pass the time, because he simply _wouldn't sit still_. And it was somewhat irritating, to tell the truth, the way his facial expression kept drifting somewhere between pain and amusement, without settling on any one face in particular.

The hour concluded as most such meetings did; with an awkward hug, a pat on the shoulder and closing remarks of encouragement. Matthew seemed to have handled it quite well, judging by the look of things. He spared a final glance at Alfred and gave Arthur a quick, cordial smile as another orderly led him back out the doors.

Arthur made his way to the table, stooping over to clear up Matthew's half-empty cup of tea, when Alfred Jones decided to speak.

"He's ashamed of me."

Arthur straightened, cup and saucer in hand, admittedly caught off-guard. He'd been instructed to speak with the patients as little as possible, but he couldn't simply _ignore _him, and he was standing much too close to pretend he hadn't heard. Arthur swallowed. "He…seems like a nice lad."

Alfred shrugged. "Aw, he's cool. He's ashamed of me though."

Arthur only nodded awkwardly and wiped at the table with a small rag he kept knotted to his belt. What else was he supposed to say? Hopefully Alfred Jones had enough sense to drop the subject—

"He used to look up to me, but not anymore, I guess."

_You are not going to let this go, are you?_ Arthur chewed his lip for a bit, allowing himself to wonder why Alfred Jones was here in the first place. In another few minutes, he supposed he was very likely to find out, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to.

Alfred scratched again at the crook of his elbow. It seemed to be a habit. "It's irritating. I'm the older twin anyway, but he's sittin' there talking to be me like I'm five years old. Like what the hell?"

_Twins? With different last names?_ That was peculiar.

Alfred seemed to want him to respond, but Arthur was certainly _not_ qualified to give any mental patient any sort of advice—the director of the ward had made that very clear upon hiring him. "Look, perhaps you should speak with your psychiatrist?" he offered weakly. "Dr. Beilshmidt is in today, or one of the others if you'd—"

"No way, are you nuts?" Alfred shook his head quickly. "I don't need them, they put thoughts in my head, that I...Nah, I don't need that. It just makes things worse, I swear, they make me crazy. But I don't mean _crazy_ crazy, because I'm not crazy."

_But that's what they all say, isn't it?_

"You probably think I'm crazy," Alfred added, sharp blue eyes daring Arthur to disagree. "Everyone here thinks I'm crazy, and they always think they're right. And they always _agree _with each other. I swear it's like some sort of evil cult. You're an orderly aren't you; will they kill you if you don't agree with them? Sometimes _I_ don't agree with them and I swear they want to kill me for it. Maybe they _are_ trying to kill me. I read a book like that once, and this stuff happens in real life, ya know? Maybe my mom paid them off to get rid of me, and they're just taking their sweet time."

Arthur raised an eyebrow at the clenched fist on Alfred's lap, thinking for a moment that he might get punched, but Alfred caught his eye and immediately the fist loosened. He let out a heavy breath, puffing his cheeks and sinking deeper into his chair. "Hah. Sorry. Seeing my brother again just…I kind of wish I didn't see him. I mean, I wish _he_ didn't see _me_. I think he thinks I lost my mind, but I swear I didn't. My mind's right here." Alfred tapped the side of his head. "Been here the whole time too. It's not even my fault, I'm not supposed to be here."

_Listen, I'm not exactly here to make you feel better.._. "I'm just an orderly," Arthur reminded him pathetically. There _was_ a time when he truly believed he could and would cure people, to heal them from the inside out, to help them to be normal, to be happy. But that was before he failed out of university and all prospects of a real future slipped from his grasp. _No…you never wanted a future in the first place, _an unwanted voice inside him insisted.

_I was supposed to help_.

Deep in his mind, he was still apologising for his failures.

He watched Alfred squirm uncomfortably and pull at the collar of his sweater, and he didn't know why, but it made him sort of angry. Alfred seemed hot, haggard, sick. His distracted fingers drummed along the table in some sort of quiet desperation, but still, he just _sat_ there. Moving but not moving.

"Well, I'm sure you're here for a reason," Arthur shrugged, sudden irritation getting the better of him and forcing the out his words. "You can't always diagnose yourself; that's why these hospitals exist. Perhaps you _are_ mental. For example, who in their right mind wears a bloody sweater in this sort of heat?"

Alfred stared up at him from behind his specs with wide blue eyes, looking so affronted it made _Arthur_ feel like the crazy one. "Are you trying to insult me?"

"I—no, I didn't mean it like that—" _Ah, this was why I typically tried to think before speaking—_

"I didn't want my brother to freak out about all the needle pricks, you asshole. I just wanted him to think I'm getting better. Even though I'm already fine." He returned his gaze to the top of the table. "Wouldn't expect _you_ to understand. Damn limey," he added offhand. And then he nearly _smirked._

Arthur blinked rapidly, at a loss for intelligent words, anger rising him from the blatant insult.

But suddenly it didn't matter. Two nurses came into the room, one rather short and with a delicate blonde bob pooling out from beneath her cap. The taller of the two was decidedly more assertive, and here in this hospital, her name carried an impressive weight. Elizaveta Hedervary, head nurse of the facility, with her brown hair drawn up neatly behind her head and green eyes narrowed expectantly on Alfred Jones.

"I told you to meet me outside the doors when your brother left. You kept me waiting, Alfred. You know that's rude."

Though he stood without another word, Alfred gave a loud, drawn out sigh and rolled his eyes so heavily the entire room might've noticed. He straightened his sweater and walked away, as if Arthur himself had suddenly vanished into thin air and this terrible little conversation hadn't happened at all.

"Don't mind him," she directed at Arthur with a calm smile. "He knows he's not supposed to talk to the orderlies," Elizaveta called out with a quick, acknowledging nod as the door clicked shut behind them.

Where they were bringing him, Arthur didn't know. He turned around and continued to wipe the tea stains off the table, scrubbing until well after its surface shone spotless.

#

The second time Arthur met Alfred turned out to be much, much worse than the first.

As usual, he spent his workday playing assistant to the more important personnel; psychiatric doctors and visiting specialists who needed busy hands to attend to busy work. He often found himself monitoring recreation sessions in the lounge or the yard, or else transporting indisposed patients from one room to another. It was hardly gratifying, and in truth, he doubted he was little more than an irritating shadow, scrabbling about for a chance to be useful.

That was how he found himself once again in Building 13 at seven o'clock in the evening, preparing syringes for Doctor Edelstein.

Roderich Edelstein was renowned throughout the hospital. Even those who'd never met him had heard talk of the well-bred, no-nonsense psychiatrist recruited straight from a facility in Vienna. One could tell by the hard line of his mouth and the sharp concentration in his eyes that he was a man born to scrutinize and to test. Dr. Edelstein knew everything about psychiatric medicines and therapies, and nothing about friendly human relationships, but what did that matter? No one was here to make friends.

Edelstein carefully pinched and prodded at the inner elbow of an unconscious male patient, and Arthur stood silent and watched.

"Next one." Edelstein tossed the used needle into a small metal rubbish tin and strode over to the next bed.

Arthur obediently rolled the cart full of syringes forward and parked it at Roderich's side. He handed the doctor a new syringe already filled with clear liquid (though he had no idea what it did and was honestly afraid to ask). The doctor tested it in the air and positioned it over the vein of another unconscious patient.

"Have you thought about attending classes here at the institution, Arthur?"

Well, Arthur had to give Edelstein _some_ credit; he occasionally _tried_ to make pleasant conversation.

"No, I haven't," Arthur admitted. In truth, he had thought about it, but the thought seemed absolutely ridiculous.

Roderich nodded and pushed the needle into the vein. "You should consider it. I've been teaching classes here for two years." The needle slid deeper and deeper beneath the unsuspecting skin. "I've already seen my pupils go on to perform successful frontal lobe lobotomies at renowned hospitals, including this one."

_Isn't that a pleasant thought._

His Austrian accent was quite fun to listen to though, perhaps the way Arthur's own English accent was fun for Americans (as they often reminded him).

"I doubt I'm cut out for all that," Arthur sighed, careful to omit the fact that he was a university drop-out, and that he was working here primarily for the employment benefits (it was preferable to destitution), and that he was an illegal immigrant in the first place.

"I wouldn't say no so easily. Many of the students who study here are brand new to the field. It gives them an opportunity for interactive education and lectures from practicing doctors. Most of the orderlies here are students themselves, didn't you know that?"

"I did." Lord knew his fellow orderlies and nurses never shut up about their studies; how _interesting_ everything was, or how _tiresome_ the coursework was becoming, despite that they seemed to love it.

"And you refuse to take part?"

Was this a recruitment session or a pity speech? Either way Arthur wasn't in the mood.

"Education is important," Doctor Edelstein added. "Give it a second thought."

Dear God—wherever he went, the reminder of his failures haunted him. More and more, it seemed better to accept that it would always eat away at his self-esteem than to think he might be able to escape it—

"Doctor Edelstein." Nurse Hedervary appeared in the doorway, tall and brunette and assertive as ever. "We're a bit light on staff right now, if you wouldn't mind me stealing your orderly for a moment to help with a patient—"

"Of course," Roderich consented, without sparing his colleague a glance. It was no secret that Elizaveta Hedervary was the only soul who made demands on Roderich and got away with it.

Her cheeks were flushed pink and her chest heaved with pants as if she'd rushed from down the hall. "Thank you," she breathed, clearly on edge about something. Her white nurse's cap sat askew on her head and nearly fell off as she nodded once, motioning with a frantic hand for Arthur to come.

Arthur obeyed (she was his superior after all), but not without a curious frown.

As soon as they stepped out into the hall, a string of inaudible, muffled curses sounded from behind the door of a nearby room. Another patient in hysterics, no doubt. It was never a pleasant situation, but it was impossible to avoid if you were staffed in a mental hospital.

"Is something wrong?"

"Not entirely." The head nurse started off at a brisk pace, leaving him to scramble in her dust. "I just need an extra pair of hands. Vash went off to Building 23 earlier today observe a lobotomy," she explained above the muffled yelling. "Not that I can blame him, he _is_ graduating next month. In here." She flung open the door and all at once the shouting became loud and painfully clear—

"_I'm not crazy! Stop! I don't NEED it! I swear, I'm not crazy! I'm not! I'm NOT_!"

Nurse Hedervary's fancy shoes slid along the floor as she turned into the room, Arthur following close at her heels. She rushed him to the only occupied gurney in the room, where it appeared another nurse had just wrestled the hysterical patient onto his back while a second stood by the window, nursing a bloody lip. It seemed they'd given up on trying to calm their patient down.

And suddenly it occurred to him what sort of room this was…

"I've—I've never done this before—"

"No worries, your job is simple," Nurse Hedervary waved a hand and turned away from him. "Hurry it on now," she ordered, and her fellow nurse struggled to grasp at the patients' flailing legs enough to strap his ankles down.

Arthur was about to assist (or try, anyway) when he caught a glimpse of the patient's face and stopped dead in his tracks.

…_Alfred Jones?_

Wasn't that the name? The miserable lad whose twin had come to visit earlier that day? The one who 'wasn't crazy'?

He was hardly recognizable in such a distressed state, and he appeared to have lost his glasses, but there was an unmistakable '13-50' marked across his t-shirt.

Nurse Hedervary secured a leather strap around Alfred's torso, effectively immobilising him, and stuffed a thin rubber block between his teeth. "Hold that down," she commanded Arthur, who obediently grasped at the edges of the rubber block in Alfred's mouth, righting the patient's head. Nurse Hedervary's movements were swift and well-rehearsed, but Alfred groaned dejectedly, twisting from side to side as if willing the his bindings to come loose. When he began to yell again, his words were garbled but his desperation seemed to increase tenfold.

_He says he's not crazy, _Arthur wanted to say, because Alfred had insisted it, and they didn't seem to hear him now.

With practised motions, the little blonde nurse pressed Alfred's left wrist into place at his side and fumbled with the leather strap, buckling it as tight as it would go before rushing around the gurney to do the same to the right.

Alfred's hands clenched into fists, and Arthur strengthened his grip on the rubber block in Alfred's mouth. "Calm down," he said quietly, quite sure that Alfred hadn't even heard, or didn't care enough to recognise him. _What else am I supposed to say?_

Elizaveta sent him a curious look before turning away. She began to fiddle with a strange contraption that looked at first glance like a radio, with various knobs and numbers and labels written along the side. But any member of this facility knew what that contraption truly was, and what it did.

It released up to 500 volts of raw electricity, sent the currents shrieking through your body and your brain.

It _saved_ you.

But it appeared Alfred did not want to be saved. He tugged and pulled against his restraints and screamed.

"_I'm not crazy_!"

It was the most prominent phrase that left his lips between the wordless, strangled cries.

"_Stop it, NO! I'm not crazy! I'M NOT CRAZY! Listen, please! Stop it, I'm not crazy!" _Despite the block lodged between his teeth, it wasn't hard to tell what he was trying to say. He seemed so certain, chanting it frantically like a mantra he'd chanted many times before.

"Just calm down," Arthur said again. _Just shut up, please. _

His eyes were drawn to the insides of Alfred's elbows, dotted with tiny pinpricks and mottled with bruises, some pale yellow and fading, others as fresh as if they'd just been given. _No wonder he didn't want his brother to see._

Elizaveta pushed Alfred's hair back to swath conducting gel on both sides of his head and fit the electrodes over his temples.

He shook his head feebly in protest, unstill and unquiet. Wanting _help_. Wanting help because he didn't want to be helped?

"200 volts," Elizaveta mumbled under Alfred's incessant yelling, and Arthur and the nurses braced themselves while Alfred continued to thrash as roughly as the bindings allowed.

The shock hit him unaware.

It took one swift, slightly audible _zap_ and his entire body seized, eyes rolling back in his head, muscles spasming as the mind lost control and the lightning struck. He tried to scream, but he seemed unable to manage it. His limbs tensed and jerked uncontrollably against the restraints, the stiff leather digging into his wrists as his breath came fast and uneven, lodging in his throat.

The nurses held him as still as they could, knowing if he moved too roughly he'd likely snap a bone. Arthur had heard of such things happening. But he'd never actually _seen_ this before. Elizaveta all but shoved him aside, holding the bottom of Alfred's chin and keeping one hand firmly on the top of his head to still his convulsions.

Arthur welcomed the chance back away. He could do nothing but stare, a silent apology in his eyes because he realised he _was _sorry. Why the hell was he sorry? He had nothing to do with this, it wasn't _his _idea. In any case, patients needed this therapy. Even if they didn't want it. Patients didn't always understand—that's why they found themselves here in the first place; something was wrong with them and they could not help themselves. What was Arthur sorry for, anyway? For that horrid little conversation they'd had earlier? Maybe he had been a bit rude.

His heart had not yet rebounded from the pit of his stomach, but when he took another step backward, something gave a small, rippling _crack_ under the heel of his shoe, and he glanced down.

Oh…_oh. _

_Dammit_.

A pair of wire-rimmed glasses, the nose bent and the right lens cracked in a thousand places.

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_Hello from the author =) This is just the first chapter, and I have plans for this story all the way to the very ending, but I decided to post it here because there seemed to be interest after I put some of my art for it on tumblr (my tumblr url is "heroic-plights"). If you want to read more, please let me know! I can promise that it won't be this miserable the whole time, and it won't take place entirely in the hospital-there's more to the glorious fifties than shock therapy, right? Like cars, diners, washing machines, MUSIC. _

_Quick History Notes: _

_~Pilgrim State Mental Hospital was a real hospital that existed in on Long Island, but today it's just a set of run-down, creepy buildings. The infamous lobotomies took place in building 23._

_~Electroshock therapy in the 1950's was primary given when the patient was fully conscious. Occasionally the patients' bones would snap from being strapped down while having violent convulsions. Other therapies included insulin therapy, hydrotherapy, and frontal-lobe lobotomies._

_Thanks for reading (and reviewing?), I hope you enjoy the rest of the story if I get around to posting another chapter =)_


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